DAIMON ATOPON

                        I

One can seek you beneath a cypress of foam,
in the fingers of air, metallic of dream,
in a volcano of birds ignited by snow
or in the voiceless waves of silvery fish.

You hide in rivers,
in leaves of rock,
in cold moons.
You live behind the veins,
on the edge of teeth,
invisible in the blood, naked, of dawn.

I have seen you many a time blaze against the glass panes,
leap in the pupils,
consume yourself in the echoes of a nameless abyss.

Your shadow gave me light,
caressed my face,
took form in my mouth.
And your glance burns, ice's lightning flash,
smoke in the eyebrows,
lava.

                        II

Oblivion's tree, you,
incessant body,
dove suspended above the vertigo.

There is a blue salt behind your eyebrows,
in your cheeks a sea of open fire,
an unspeakable tick-tock that carries me
as far as a deep god formed of foam.

And it is to observe the air,
to scrape the mystery,
to stab the shadow.

And I go on discovering you,
metallic woman, among the hawthorn:
a murmur of transparent blood
in the lost face of silence.

                        III

For you the light ascends at midday,
sand extending up to my lips,
thread of fiery and persistent earth
where space bursts forth more intense.

It is a geyser of foam,
of interrupted lava,
of an incomplete dove
that multiplies the air in a dimension of voices.

All is music, a tuning fork pitch.
In nothingness, even bodies make sounds.